Everybody's Shuffling
by Cryptic Nymph
Summary: Pressing shuffle on my iPod and seeing where it takes us. Oneshots. CONTAINS PRESLASH/SLASH. T for safety.
1. Introduction

_**Hey! So, I thought to myself, what's the antidote to revision woes? And I realised- ONESHOT FUN! No plots to maintain! Oneshots FTW! So I stole an idea from my sister's blog, and have effectively made an iPod shuffle meme-fic thing. OH YEAH, AND CHECK OUT MY POPULAR CULTURE REFERENCES IN THE TITLE, I AM SO WITH IT.**_

_**Ahem, yes. So, this was a brief intro. Let's click shuffle, shaaaall we?**_


	2. Play On

_**Track: **__Play On._

_**Artist: **__Paloma Faith._

_**Album:**__ Do You Want The Truth Or Something Beautiful?_

_**YouTube Link: **__.com/watch?v=Qp-vj35i1U8_

_**Yeah, I thought I'd post a link to the song, just in case people wanted to actually hear it. HERE YOU GO:**_

_**WARNING: Pre-Slash Sherlock/John, angst.**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Play On<strong>_

Occasionally, John would ask Sherlock to play his violin for him, when Sherlock was in the right mood. Sherlock would smirk, then pick up his violin and begin- he never refused John this. But when Sherlock played his violin, the music undid him. The puzzle of John Watson was unravelled, unlocking every layer of his heart and his soul and finding hidden beauty within. No matter what he played, it made John feel stronger and safer just from hearing it, and at the same time, so very vulnerable. It was as if Sherlock could see inside him as he played, the enchanting music reverberating around his very core, swelling and growing beneath his skin like the heartbeat of the universe. And when he was alone at night, trying to sleep or waking up after a nightmare, he swore that he could hear the music, in sync with his shallow breathing.

John got nightmares a lot- not just about the war, though a lot of them were. No, interspersed between the flashbacks and the night sweats, he dreamed of going deaf. Both his grandfather and his father had gone deaf very early on, eventually unable to hear anything at all, and it terrified him. It reminded him of the dreadful silence after a bomb blast in Afghanistan, whilst wreckage burned like a bonfire beneath a thousand shining fireworks. Life without sound was no life at all to him- and just once, Sherlock had heard his feeble whimpers and come to check on him.

So when John woke up, he was startled to find Sherlock watching him with a pained expression, but cradling his violin in his arms. And John awoke to beautiful, serene music that he couldn't fully understand, not when he was half-awake. But it soothed him, and the thought that Sherlock had cared enough to help was enough, for now, enough to help him sleep. The music reassured him that he could still hear, but if it stopped, he wasn't sure he wanted to wake up.

John knew that their song had to end, though he did not want it to. Someday, Sherlock would tire of the army doctor, get bored of his simple lifestyle of tea and jumpers and work, and would find someone infinitely more exciting to be with. He'd probably end up leaving them too. Because wasn't that what Sherlock was like? He didn't _need_ anyone- and he knew that the day when Sherlock refused to play his violin for him would be the day that he would leave him. But until then, John would follow Sherlock wherever he took them, their souls harmonized like the melody of some long forgotten song.

There wasn't anything he could do. Sherlock wasn't like ordinary men- John wasn't so _enthralled_ by ordinary men. He seemed to have a quality that transcended gender, making John care too deeply, making him want too much, making him do things that he would normally not dare to even contemplate. So with Sherlock gone, the music of the universe could no longer be heard- he was drowning in a colourless sea of need for the man who gave him a purpose. He just prayed that he'd go deaf before Sherlock told him that he no longer wanted him as a friend. He couldn't hear those words.


	3. Cell Block Tango

**Track: **Cell Block Tango.

**Artist: **Various Artists.

**Album: **Chicago Soundtrack (2002 Film)

**YouTube Link: **.com/watch?v=joZb3so4tww

**WARNING: **Mystrade, and suggested pre-slash Sherlock/John. I think that's it. OH. And all the descriptions of murders, except Sherlock's, are part of the song, just FYI :D

* * *

><p>Sherlock wasn't used to being the one behind bars. It was his job to put people in prison, not himself. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't commit crimes, he frequently broke into houses, stole people's personal possessions and, occasionally, burned down buildings- some times deliberately, sometimes accidentally. But Sherlock was never the type to get caught, he was far too intelligent.<p>

Which is why it wouldn't surprise you to realise that Sherlock was undercover for a case- he needed to find out how heroin was being sold within a prison- but _whereabouts_ in this prison might.

When John saw him walk downstairs in an orange jumpsuit, lipstick and mascara, he'd made a rather undignified noise, somewhere between a laugh and a splutter. It sounded rather like a small animal being trodden on.

"Don't stare," Sherlock said coolly to him, taking a sip of his tea. "It's unbecoming of you."

"Sherlock," John said, a giggle barely suppressed in his voice. "You're wearing makeup."

"A startling deduction," he replied, glancing at the paper on the kitchen table.

"You never told me you had to be in _drag_ for this!" John laughed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't, I just dress like this when I visit prisons," he said, words dripping with sarcasm. "Please."

John glanced at a box that Sherlock had placed on a chair beside him. "What's in there?"

"Oh, nothing much really. My fake possessions, some shoes, a wig for me to wear…"

"You bought a wig?"

"I already had the wig."

John widened his eyes, his eyebrows raised. "You already had a wig?"

Sherlock gave him a half smile. "This isn't my first time in drag, John." He went to his room, leaving John blushing like a school girl and indecently wondering what Sherlock had looked like in something more flattering than an orange jumpsuit.

* * *

><p>"Ready?" said Lestrade, patting him on the shoulder.<p>

"As I'll ever be."

They walked down the long corridor, Sherlock cuffed, looking for his cell.

"Nice wig," Lestrade murmured, failing in hiding his grin. "You make a charming woman."

"Would it surprise you if I said that wasn't the first time I'd heard that?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Not in the slightest."

Sherlock smiled. "I believe this is my stop. I'll see you later."

Lestrade gave him a curt nod before unlocking the cell and ushering him inside. He quickly locked the door behind him, leaving Sherlock alone.

He stared at the blank walls, so uninviting and cold. He sat down on the bed, searching through his box to find his fake property. He placed a few books he had been given by his bedside- Sherlock frowned at the choices made by Lestrade. A Mills and Boon esque novel, a science fiction book and a series of short stories about a fictional detective. He found the last particularly insulting- he despised crime fiction.

There were a couple of photographs placed within, and he frowned at these too. Lestrade had clearly thought that giving him personal photographs might help him a little. There was one of him and Mrs Hudson, another of Mycroft, and several of him and John at a party a few months ago.

"Very funny," Sherlock muttered, scowling at the pictures. "How bloody hilarious."

* * *

><p>He sat down at an empty table in the canteen, half heartedly prodding at some disgusting looking food. Starving children would refuse to eat this crap. He sighed, taking a sip from his cup of water, attempting to think.<p>

A tall woman with her hair in a dark bob sat down beside her, smiling. "Hey, you're new, right?"

"Yes," he said, cursing his naturally low voice. "I am."

"Ah. Well, welcome to Whiteleaf prison. I'm Velma." She turned to a table of women, who had been observing their conversation. "Girls," she called. "Come sit by my friend- what was it?"

He paused for the briefest of moments. "Abby."

She smiled again as the other girls sat down. Together they made seven, Velma sitting at the end of the table, a sort of mother figure for them all.

"This is June, Liz, Mona, Annie and Katalin," they each waved at her in turn, Katalin a little sadly. "This is Abby."

Sherlock gave them a weak smile. "Hi."

"So Abby," said Velma, pushing her food around her plate. "What did you do to get locked up in here?"

"I…" Sherlock thought madly. "I killed someone."

All the girls except Katalin laughed. "We've all killed someone honey," said June. "That's why they call it 'Murderer's Row'. We just wanted to know the specifics, is all."

"Come on," said Liz. "Give her a break. It's her first day, someone else say their story first."

"Alright then," said Mona. "Why don't you do it?"

"Fine," Liz replied. "I will." She cleared her throat. "You know how people have these little habits that get you down? Like… Ernie." She grinned. "Ernie liked to chew gum. No, not chew," She picked up her knife and looked at her own reflection in its surface. "Pop. Well, I came home this one day, and I am really irritated, and looking for a little sympathy… And there's Ernie, lying on the sofa, drinking a beer and chewing. No, not chewing," She slammed the knife down flat onto the table. "Popping. So I said to him, I said, 'If you pop that gum one more time'… and he did. So I took his shotgun, and I fired two warning shots," She smirked. "Into his head."

Sherlock joined in with the laughter, secretly sickened at her throw away attitude to her crime.

Liz chuckled. "You next, Annie."

Annie put down the glass she was holding and smiled dreamily. "I met Ezekiel Young about two years ago, and he told me he was single, and we hit it off right away. So we started living together. He'd go to work, he'd come home, I'd mix him a drink. We'd have dinner." Her smile ended abruptly. "And then I found out. 'Single', he told me? Single my ass. Not only was he married, oh no, he had six wives. One of those 'polygamists', you know? So that night, when he came home, I mixed him his drink as usual." She threw back the remains of her drink, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. "You know, some guys just can't hold their arsenic."

Was this what they did with their time, Sherlock thought, tell stories? It was interesting, yes, but it felt a little sick. And when Sherlock found something sick, you knew it had to be wrong- he had a very strange moral compass.

"Me next," said June, turning to look at Sherlock. "Now, I'm standing in the kitchen, carving up a chicken for dinner, minding my own business, and in storms my husband Wilbur in a jealous rage. 'You been screwing the milkman?' he said. He was crazy, and he kept screaming, 'You been screwing the milkman?'" Her eyes gleamed. "And then he ran into my knife. He ran into my knife _ten_ times."

It seemed like an ordinary conversation, the way that they were joking around. The only one who didn't laugh was Katalin.

"Mona, why don't you go before me?" said Velma. "I'd love to hear the story again."

"I loved Al Lipschitz more than I can possibly say. He was a real artistic guy, sensitive, a painter. But he was always trying to 'find himself'. He'd go out every night 'looking for himself', and on the way, he found Ruth, Gemma, Rose and Iris." She sighed. "I guess you could say we broke up because of 'artistic differences'. He saw himself as alive, and I saw him _dead_."

"My sister Veronica and I did this double act," said Velma, in an offhand fashion. "And my husband Charlie used to travel around with us. Now, for the last number in our act, we did these twenty acrobatic tricks- four, five, splits, spread eagles, back flips, flip flops, one right after the other. Well, this one night, we were in this hotel Cisero, the three of us boozing, having a few laughs, and we ran out of ice. So I go out to get some. I come back, and there's Veronica and Charlie doing number seventeen- the spread eagle." No-one laughed at this, her face showed that she still felt hurt and angry. She composed herself. "Well, I was in such a state of shock, I completely blacked out. I can't remember a thing. It wasn't until later, when I was washing the blood off my hands, I even knew they were dead."

A few nervous chuckles travelled around the group, but no more. Sherlock found his mouth suddenly dry, a little disgusted by their conversations.

"So," said Velma. "Tell us what happened with you…"

Sherlock swallowed hard. "I… I have a flatmate- _had_ a flatmate, I should say. His name is John. John Watson… He's a doctor. And I found his girlfriend was cheating on him- Sarah, was her name. She was a doctor too." Sherlock paused. It was harmless. It wasn't like he was _actually_ going to kill her. "She was with loads of people- a Gregory, an Andrew, a Toby, even this one girl called… Sally." Sherlock smirked. "She was a piece of work. So I gave her a little… medicine. You know, you'd think that a doctor wouldn't be squeamish at the sight of blood, wouldn't you? Not so true with her."

Velma laughed. "Very nice. This John guy seems cute. Sounds like the bitch deserved it."

"Yeah…" Sherlock sighed. "But- Don't you ever feel a bit- you know, guilty? Like, Mona, you loved Al… Don't you feel bad?"

Mona laughed. "Why would I? The bastard had it coming."

"You weren't there," said June. "You would have done the same."

"I suppose…" said Sherlock weakly. "So, er, Katalin- what did you do?"

She looked up at the use of her name, but said nothing.

"Ignore her," said Liz. "She can't speak English very well."

"Hungarian," said Annie. "Killed her husband."

"No!" said Katalin, indignantly. "Not guilty!"

Sherlock looked her in the eye. "You promise?"

She nodded. "Not guilty!"

Sherlock stood up. "I'm going to get back to my cell. Thanks for sitting with me."

"Not a problem," said Velma. "Just make sure you stick with us, honey. We're the good guys."

* * *

><p>Sherlock did solve the case, around two hours after he had finished his conversation with the other inmates- the woman who ran the prison, known as 'Mama' Morton, was smuggling in the drugs in return for sexual favours. It had, overall, been an open and shut case. Still, it didn't stop the other officers sniggering at him for his disguise.<p>

"I heard about your outfit, Sherlock," said Sally, smirking. "Never knew you were into that kind of thing."

"Oh Sally," Sherlock said curtly. "I'm 'into' a great deal of things that you're not aware of."

Having sufficiently freaked out Sergeant Donovan, he met with Lestrade in his office.

"Here," he threw down the box of books and belongings. "You can have these back. And that damn photo of Mycroft too- is that from your own collection, Gregory?"

Lestrade blushed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please. A three year old could see that you're shagging my brother, detective, which incidentally is the average mental age of the people you employ."

"You're keeping the ones of you and John, then?" said Lestrade, a little tetchily.

Sherlock smiled. "I want you to reopen the case of Katalin Helinski- I am almost certain she's innocent."

"This is unlike you," he replied. "You're not the type to 'reopen' cases."

"Well, I've had a very long and unusual day. And if you don't mind, I'll be at home, resting." And with a swish of his coat, he was gone.

* * *

><p>He returned to 221B Baker Street as quickly as he could, where he found John reading the paper.<p>

"You're back soon- it didn't even take you a day!" John beamed at him, looking impressed. He glanced at Sherlock's attire, and sighed exasperatedly. "Tell me you didn't wear that at the police station?"

"No."

John looked relieved. "Good- Wait, then why-"

"I put this on for you."

John choked, spilling tea down himself. "I- What?"

He winked, walking into his own bedroom, revealing some very high heels and very long legs. John bit his lip. God damn that man.


	4. Through the Dark

_**Track: **__Through the Dark_

_**Artist: **__KT Tunstall_

_**Album: **__Eye to the Telescope_

_**YouTube Link: **__.com/watch?v=0m_ZGGyhyJU_

_**I noticed that the link thing does that weird thing where it only shows the second half. But if you want to watch it, you know how it works, right? You just stick the YouTube bit in front… **_

_**Also, I noticed that my amazing pop-culture reference in the title of this fic is, in fact, wrong. LAWL. MY BAD. Yeah, that just shows you my level of understanding when it comes to popular music. Apparently it's "Everyday I'm Shuffling", but I'm styling out this cock up by saying that I reaaaally don't have the time to update it every day, so I paraphrased it. Yeah. That's so what I did right there. **_

_**I'll stop spamming you with songs and get on with it, shall I?**_

_**Through the Dark**_

Sherlock didn't sleep if he can help it, everyone knew that. Anyone who'd seen him drag his emaciated body into Scotland Yard after 144 hours without a rest knew this, and they knew exactly what would happen next. Sherlock would get himself thrown out, all cases withheld from him by Lestrade until he could prove he'd some sleep.

When asked why he deprived himself of this basic human need, he'd smirk and tell them it was to test himself; and this was partly true. Sherlock taught himself to endure, to survive, it was his way of staying sharp. It was a method he'd stuck to all his life- he'd see how far he could push himself. Whether it was lack of sleep or food, alcohol consumption or even how long he could irritate someone without them punching him. It was another form of experimentation- if he knew his limits, he had control.

Except… Usually, he'd leave it there. And this would work, because Sherlock would have no need to investigate it again. But there was something so… infuriatingly _interesting_, despite all evidence to the contrary. Without saying a word, he'd spark a flame of fascination in Sherlock that needed to be explored, pinned down, put in a box and left in an attic of Sherlock's considerable brain.

The real reason Sherlock didn't sleep was because he couldn't. Shamefully, degradingly, he found himself unable to drift off in an empty room. And the work, it filled the time nicely- the insomnia would have consumed him. Sherlock needed constant stimulation- he could stop the boredom through work or drugs- either way, it was killing him.

Except… That man. There was a puzzle Sherlock could not solve, the mystery of John Watson. So he'd spend his nights trying to unlock him, unravel him, interpret the man's many layers in a vain attempt at resolution. Because surely then he wouldn't feel this godforsaken _need_ for John in his life, a lack of control that he simply could not allow himself to feel? This was an empty wish- he had no desire to lose someone so _absorbing_.

But how could he possibly explain it to him? This shuddering, overwhelming desire to catalogue every single detail about him?

So he set himself an experiment- he would see how long he could endure this helplessness, before he ruined it all. Then John would leave, and they would both be better off somehow, eventually. How long could he wait before he expressed every frantic, fervent feeling he had for John?

He tried so hard, for so long. Six long years of darkness passed before Sherlock gave into his yearnings and told John everything that he had for so long tried to suppress. And he'd waited for the blow to fall, blinded by love and unable to watch his friend tear his hopes to shreds, but something he could never have predicted had happened. John had confessed, in equal measure, to the same aching longing in his heart, and they'd cried and shared and fallen asleep in each other's arms.

He'd woken up in the middle of the night, the dark thick and with John by his side. And he'd almost fled there and then out of panic. The experiment was finished, and John Watson was revealed to him. And logically, he should be bored. He should be bored of this silly, ordinary little man; and he couldn't allow this brooding cloud of powerlessness make his life dark. It would end everything he had ever known as life, his independence would be lost.

But love isn't something you can turn on and off like a light bulb. And then, in the dark of the living room of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock realised that he didn't want to illuminate the situation. He wanted nothing more than to sleep here with John, because John made sleeping worthwhile; somehow he made it easy, like he did with every other decision in his life.

Endurance was Sherlock's specialty. He felt the world as he knew it fraying at the edges, tearing apart at the seams, but he couldn't stop himself falling for John Watson. The life he'd known before John was ending, as all things did. This, he knew more than everything else. Eventually, his and John's time would end too. So he set himself a new experiment. He would see how long it would take him to kill himself with love. He'd never been so happy to lose control.


	5. Lovesong

_**Track: **__Lovesong_

_**Artist: **__The Cure_

_**Album: **__Disintegration_

_**YouTube Link:**__ .com/watch?v=NCtIih2HR8Y_

_**Bit of a cheat here, to be honest. I love this song, and I didn't feel I could build a story around it to do it justice. So here's a fic, and be kind.**_

_**WARNING: Contains sweary!John.**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lovesong<strong>_

John had never thought of Sherlock as the romantic type- the man was so buttoned up, so prim and proper when it came to his feelings, it was almost Victorian. As someone who had tried at length to suppress all emotion for the best part of his life, when they'd finally gotten together, John hadn't expected a big romantic gesture. They were British, damn it, it just wasn't done.

So he hadn't expected big Valentine's Day gifts, and he was right not to- Sherlock hadn't even realised what day it was until three weeks later, and then had dismissed it as commercial nonsense. He'd always done Valentine's Day with his girlfriends; they'd given each other crappy commercial gifts and had a slightly awkward yet undeniably "romantic" evening. He was a little relieved that didn't have to bother with all that, he could just spend an evening together, as they always did, on a case.

He didn't want to make Sherlock feel uncomfortable, which is why he didn't mention their anniversary. He told himself that was why, but in reality, he didn't want to see Sherlock dismiss it as unnecessary, just as he had with Valentine's Day. Of course, it _was_ meaningless really; the day they got together had no real bearing on their relationship. Still, it would have been nice to celebrate it a bit. To see it as something _worth_ celebrating.

Two days before their anti-anniversary, Sherlock had drily informed him, "I've got a case in Switzerland tomorrow. Two of the Gnomes of Zurich and a ski instructor have been killed- I'll be away for a few days."

John's heat sunk. "Oh." He struggled to find the words to express himself, his head trying to phrase the question he longed to ask. It did not come, John asking instead, "The Gnomes of Zurich?"

"Bankers, John. Obviously."

Yes. Obviously. "Oh. Well…" _This is your final chance to tell him you don't want him to go, John. _"Have a nice trip." _Idiot._

It would have been better if John had staged a dramatic race to the airport, rushing to reach Sherlock just before he boarded the plane. But no, that didn't happen. He didn't even go with him to say goodbye, just found a note in the morning instructing him to leave those fingers in the cupboard alone. He had been quite clear on this, it was imperative to his research, and he had underlined the word "alone" twice. The angry scribbled biro taunted him.

John sighed. There was no goodbye, and he was thankful. Goodbye had too many awful connotations, too many horrible possibilities. Maybe Sherlock didn't think him worth a goodbye? Ultimately, he was throwaway; he wasn't destined to be with Sherlock forever. The fragility of their love frightened him.

John had spent a day in a sense of productive boredom; catching up on his blog, having lunch with his sister and ordering a takeaway for one in the evening. And he'd never really realized how vital Sherlock was to him until then. He couldn't function properly. The man was as part of his daily routine as combing his hair or brushing his teeth. So he picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels, and began to drink. Because that's what they did in the movies, right? Drank away their pain. Except John didn't really like whisky, to be honest, and he didn't feel "numb" or "detached" at all. He just felt drunk and humiliated, even more so when he tripped over the bin and hit his head off the sideboard.

The next morning, he woke with a hangover from hell. Cursing loudly, he staggered into the kitchen, wrenching open the cupboards and scrabbling around to find some aspirin. Eyes screwed together tightly, he felt around for the plastic bottle- only to find something squishy, smelly and ultimately revolting at his fingertips. At someone's fingertips at least, and John realized with horror that he had stuck his hand in Sherlock's latest experiment.

He let out a startled yell of surprise, recoiling and retracting his hand from the container. He ran his hand under the cold tap, shuddering a little at the contact with something so grotesque.

"Fucking Sherlock," he muttered. "He leaves me on our fucking anniversary with _this_?" He would be lying if he said he wasn't angry at him for leaving- he knew the correct response was to think about it was impossible to feel any negative feelings towards him, but the truth as plain. Sherlock could be a fucking wanker, even to John, and he wasn't having any of this shit right now.

He picked up the container and held it gingerly out before him, grabbing a strangely moldy spoon (Don't ask. You don't want to know. Really) and scraping the contents into the bin.

He washed his hands again, scrubbing them a little more angrily than he strictly needed to. _God fucking damn it._ He was ready to chuck the box into the bin, for some poor bin man to deal with later, until a flash of florescent yellow caught his eye. John peered at the sticky note at the bottom of the tin.

_**I knew you'd chuck it out.**_

_That fucking know it all_, he thought to himself.

_**I did say it was imperative to my research. You ignored me.**_

_Well I'm fucking sorry, Sherlock. I'm just a little bit fucking angry is all._

_**My experiment has been successful. I have reached a simple conclusion.**_

_Have you? Have you fucking really? Oh, how great. _

_**When you're angry with me, you'll ignore whatever I say. But please, don't ignore what I say next.**_

A 'please' from Sherlock? Now that was unusual.

_**Go to your old bedroom.**_

_**SH**_

Well. Now he had a problem. Did he ignore Sherlock completely, and not know why he had asked him to go back? It was petty, but he was in a pretty fucking petty mood. Or did he go up, and see what Sherlock wanted, and bend to his will just like he did every fucking time.

John knew his answer within a second of asking the question. Slowly, cautiously, he began to walk up the stairs to his old room. He pushed gently on the door, creaking as it opened, and stepped inside.

It was the same, in almost every way. His old bed was there, his old wardrobe, his old mirror. Except, scrawled in untidy red biro on the faded pink walls, were words. He stepped forward, squinting to make out the words in the half light. His foot hit a string at ankle height, pulling it out of whatever it was attached to.

Fumbling in the dark, John attempted to track the string to wherever it led to. He crouched, crawling across the dusty floor until he reached its end. He found it attached to CD player, speakers either side, and slowly, music began to fill his ears.

_Whenever I'm alone with you  
>You make me feel like I am home again<br>Whenever I'm alone with you  
>You make me feel like I am whole again<em>

John stood up slowly, not sure if he was hearing what he thought he was hearing. He glanced at the walls, the red clashing horribly with the pink, like a wound on milk white skin. The same words, over and over again, _I love you I love you I love you. _Hundreds of hundreds of times, never the same size, no two the same. The pink was barely visible, except for the gaps in between words.

_Whenever I'm alone with you  
>You make me feel like I am young again<br>Whenever I'm alone with you  
>You make me feel like I am fun again<em>

John felt his throat catch and smart, his eyes tingling. Which he told himself was the dust, because he did have a rather severe allergy to dust particles. John is a dirty liar.

_However far away  
>I will always love you<br>However long I stay  
>I will always love you<br>Whatever words I say  
>I will always love you<br>I will always love you_

And the words that Sherlock could never express in person, not without a hell of a lot of alcohol and anguish involved, they were etched here, in a place that had meant so much to him for so long. He did care.

_Whenever I'm alone with you  
>You make me feel like I am free again<br>Whenever I'm alone with you  
>You make me feel like I am clean again<em>

And he had known. He had known that this, _this_ was his favourite group, and this was his favourite song. He had known, somehow, without ever having to ask. That smug bastard had probably deduced it. In a fit of laughter and tears, John sank to the floor, his back leaning against the wall and his knees against his chest. He closed his eyes, desperate to stay in the moment.

Sherlock wasn't romantic, often. But when he was, he was the best. He didn't suppress his emotion, he _saved _it, until the opportune moment, until it was absolutely right. And even though Sherlock wasn't with him physically, in a way, he was.

_However far away  
>I will always love you<br>However long I stay  
>I will always love you<br>Whatever words I say  
>I will always love you<br>I will always love you_


	6. 9 Crimes

_**Track: **__9 Crimes_

_**Artist: **__Damien Rice_

_**Album: **__O_

_**YouTube Link: **__.com/watch?v=cgqOSCgc8xc_

* * *

><p><em><strong>9 Crimes<strong>_

John sat with his head bowed, his knuckles pressed against his lips. "I don't- Sarah, you have to know, I- I've never done this before."

_He thinks that is __a comfort?_ She said nothing, but continued to look past him, out of the window of her living room. He didn't wish to look at his eyes, his eyes which she knew were reddened and sore from crying, it would only create unnecessary drama.

"I have never, _ever_ cheated on anyone, and I- I hate myself for it." His voice cracked, emotion constricting the sounds of his muffled words. "I deserve so much worse than this. So much less than you, and Sh-"

"Don't," she said softly, surprised to hear no anger in her words.

John ran his fingers through his hair, gripping and pulling at his roots in his anguish. "And I know that this couldn't have come at a worse time for you-" He stopped, cut dead by her empty stare, so numb and sedated. "I feel," his voice was unusually high and wavering, "I feel so awful, Sarah. I am the worst kind of monster, and I have hurt the most innocent person. I just wanted you to know, that none of this decision has anything to do with you."

Sarah laughed coldly. "'It's not you, it's me', right?"

John looked appalled with himself. "No, God, no, not that, I just meant-"

"Tell me what you meant, John." Her voice began to quiver there, her eyes scratching painfully. "Because I have heard the _same old shit_ from half a dozen men before you, I doubt there's nothing there I can't deal with."

John bit his lip. "I know that it's no excuse, Sarah. But- I think I love him." He laughed bitterly. "That impossible, infuriating man."

She regained a little of her composure. "Why would that make me feel better, John?" she said flatly. "Knowing that you are in love with someone else?"

John seemed to see the lack of logic in his words. "… I just wanted to know if that was alright with you…"

Sarah stood up from her chair. "Yes. Now please leave."

John did not stand. "Sarah, it's OK to be angry with me, I understand."

"I'm not," she said calmly. "But I would like you to leave, all the same."

John stood, but stayed still. "Sarah, you're making this so difficult to do…"

She choked at this. "_I_ am making this hard?"

John frowned. "That came out wrong. What I mean is… How am I supposed to leave it like this? Be angry, be upset, be violent- be anything but _indifferent_!" John was definitely crying now, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Did I mean so little to you?"

No tears sprang to her eyes. "You meant everything to me, John. You were who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, but that isn't going to happen anymore, is it? What's the point in dwelling in the pain? How would you like me to react? Tears? Do you want me to throw things? I can do those things if it makes you feel better, John, but they'll be for your own benefit, not mine."

John balled his hands into fists. "We were together for two years, Sarah! That's two years of both of our lives, gone! Aren't you the least bit angry?"

"Of course!" She yelled suddenly, making John flinch. "Of course I am angry with you, John, but the fact remains, I still love you! And that will fade, eventually, but for now, you have to let me love you until I can let you go. Is that alright with you?"

"Yes," John murmured.

She paced up and down. "I still love you John, and a part of me always will. And a part of me will always think, 'What could have happened if he'd never met that damn Sherlock Holmes?' So a part of me wonders that if I don't cry and scream and shout, maybe you'll come back to me. Because that's what he's like, isn't he? He's so cold and unfeeling, but somehow he has this power over you. Maybe if I was as dead inside as he is, you'd love me again. How am I supposed to feel emotional about this breakup if you've left me for someone who has no feelings whatsoever?"

John said nothing, silence ringing in his ears.

"Am I allowed to feel like that?"

Silence. Then a brief, quick, "No."

She laughed derisively. "I'm not?"

"No. Sherlock does feel, he feels more strongly and more passionately than anyone I have ever met, he is anything but 'dead inside'. And wanting to be like that, Sarah, it's wrong. You know what Sherlock said to me, before we got together? He said that without feelings, he was alone. And that's how you stay, unless you change, you stay alone. So Sarah, please, don't ever regret the emotions you feel."

She said nothing, only stared with tear filled eyes, blurring her vision so she could barely see her former lover. He was just a shadow in her eyes, a dark shape from the past that was ever so slowly walking towards the door and out of the house. And she sat, alone, trying to scrub away the stains of hatred and anger and humiliation from her skin, the salty water doing nothing to help her remove the blemishes. No amount of cleaning would ever remove the tainted smear of John Watson from her heart. She could only hope that the disfigurement he had left in his wake would fade with time.


	7. The Only Hope For Me Is You

_**Track: **__The Only Hope For Me Is You_

_**Artist: **__My Chemical Romance_

_**Album: **__Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys_

_**YouTube link:**__ .com/watch?v=9xAzqKEYaCs_

_**WARNING: References to**__** genocide, angst, slash Sherlock/John, character deaths.**_

**The Only Hope For Me Is You**

It was snowing when he first saw the words, cast in iron above the ground. The flakes drifted slowly down upon the metal, freezing almost instantly as they touched it. Icicles had formed over weeks of harsh, bitter weather, and Sherlock was overcome with a perverse urge to touch them. To see such natural beauty on the metal sign, it didn't feel fair. These gates, after what they had seen, how could they look so inviting?

One of his classmates raised a gloved hand, shivering slightly as he spoke. "What do the words mean, sir?"

The guide rubbed his hands together, "They say 'Arbeit Macht Frei'. It means, 'Work Will Set You Free'."

They stuck together through the snow, mingling with the mud to make a disgusting slush that stuck around their ankles. The freezing cold bit at Sherlock's face, now practically numb from the exposure.

"This was the first camp," said the guide, gesturing at the red brick buildings. He pointed at the building in the distance. "These buildings are where the prisoners slept. And were punished."

They trudged along the stony ground in a dull, thudding line, their bodies too exhausted to walk too quickly. Eventually they reached the place, very well kept for a place of such destruction. It seemed to glow compared to the dirty, off-white snow that surrounded it, all too red and present. It felt like something that didn't belong in the atmosphere. It didn't belong in _any_ atmosphere, when he thought about it logically.

The guide took them to the chamber, the class huddled together for warmth. In the distance, great metal ovens towered, their freezing cases hiding the potential for destruction.

"They pumped the gas through a hole in the ceiling. It took roughly 7 cans of this poison to kill 1500 people."

The guide took them out of the chamber again, pale sunlight streaming in front of their faces. Dust swirled in patterns in the early morning air. The shuddering breath of the children mingled with it, the mist mixing and forming and becoming.

The guide took a look at them, a few crying, a few with eyes red raw from crying previously. A damp shame hung heavily on their many layered bodies. "It's cold," he said kindly. "I will take you indoors."

They did as they were told, Sherlock at the back of the crowd- alone, as ever. A sick, callous thought entered his mind- at least they didn't die alone. They were joined in their fate as cattle- objects to be owned, and destroyed; mere possessions. It wasn't fair, but at least they weren't alone.

Sherlock felt responsible. It felt like it was his fault somehow, because he didn't do more. He couldn't have, he wasn't alive when the horrors occurred, but the desire to _protect_ still consumed his restless insides.

They reached another brick house, where it was far warmer. The students made their way desperately towards heaters, before they realised what the room was.

Glass fronted the enclosure, the harsh lighting causing flares on the surface. A tangled pile of twisted metal lay within it, small panes of thick glass dull from dirt and dust.

"Glasses," said the guide softly. "Glasses, of the victims."

And though he didn't want to seem arrogant- as if anyone could possibly be _proud_ of this feeling- Sherlock felt like this affected him more than the others. Because he, with his superior talents, could stare at the glasses for a few moments, and learn about the people who had once worn them. The clever ones, the stupid ones, the ones who were clumsy, the ones who were unlucky, the ones who were rich, the ones who were poor- he knew them, and their pain, and they became so much more real. It haunted him, the existence of all these ghosts, which he knew better than them all. It was horrifically intimate knowledge, and it made him want to tear out his own eyes. They were real people, and he understood their lives before this _atrocity_ had occurred. And it hurt.

During their visit, Sherlock had been the only one who did not cry. The class had been united in sorrow, for once treating each other as equals in their mutual shame- but Sherlock had not cried. And sometimes, when he thought about it, Sherlock wondered if that had been the turning point. Because he hadn't cried at all after returning home from his "holiday", that had been the end of such ridiculous shows of emotion. If he couldn't even cry for those who deserved his sympathy the most, he couldn't allow himself to become emotional over trivial matters. So he had taken the words wrought in iron to heart- work would set him free. And he was by no means sympathising with the doctrine that had adorned a place of such horror, but he felt that to share a similar fate was no more than he deserved. This is how he could redeem the crimes of his forebears. He would give up a chance of a life, in the hope that it would somehow help absolve their ill deeds.

So work had consumed him, and he had slowly learned to cope with the world around him by using his abilities to help, to repair, to protect. And this had been enough, then, to make him- well, not _happy_, but fulfilled. He didn't need more.

Until a door opened in a lab in a hospital in London, and in walked a man that would grow to affect him deeply. They would become flatmates out of necessity, and friends out of choice. Try as he liked, he couldn't stop John Watson worming his way inside his head, making him want to be better, stopping him from detaching himself completely with the rest of the world. Here was a man that whilst unremarkable in himself, could inspire everyone around him. He was dear, and sweet, and good, and this scared him. Sherlock knew that he would corrupt the man, the saintly doctor who made him want to sin, because that's what humans do. They hurt each other. That's why he made himself stay alone.

It was a difficult situation. Sherlock still felt he needed to protect them both from the dangers of association, but was unable to do so. He told himself that after years of seeing death and hatred on a daily basis, John too would begin to hate Sherlock, but even he knew that wasn't true. John took atrocities and forgave, and tried to help. To repair. To protect. He would never give up on making Sherlock a good man. He longed to be the shadow of a human being that he had been before, untouchable and unapproachable by someone so heavenly.

Sherlock needed to protect, it was what drove him. So part of him wished that if John felt the same way about him, they might protect each other.

John was Sherlock's divine salvation and ultimately his undoing. Their twisted romance had even extended to their deaths- together, at the hands of psychopath with a bomb in a swimming pool. They purified as they were blown apart- mixing and forming and becoming as fire and rubble consumed their collapsing bodies, all the while knowing that they had saved each other from a far worse fate. They had ended their mutual isolation.

_**I recently visited Auschwitz. It's every bit as horrible as I had always imagined it to be.**_


	8. Why Can't I Be You?

**And they said unto her, let there be fluff- and lo, there was fluff. **

**I'M SORRY GUYS. I didn't realise how much depressing crap I was writing, I've got fluff for you now! *cowers* The awfulness of this chapter actually hurts, but I needed to write some fluff. Both for myself and you lovely people.**

**Track: **Why Can't I Be You?

**Artist: **The Cure

**Album: **Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me

**YouTube Link: **.com/watch?v=oeFIjyrXixM&feature=related

**Why Can't I Be You?**

John felt his body collapse down onto the armchair, and welcomed the soft fabric cushioning his sore limbs.

"Two bloody days," he muttered, taking off one of his shoes, "in the freezing cold, in the middle of bloody Scotland, and what do I have to show for it? Some sugared almonds and probably hypothermia."

He got up out of his chair with a groan, having wrenched the other shoe off his foot with great difficulty, and staggered into the kitchen. Tea was what he needed now. Lovely, strong, tea. Tea would never make him go to Scotland for a god awful wedding. Who had an outdoor wedding in Scotland? Who made their guests stay in a forest? _Really_? He absentmindedly stirred his tea, irregularly changing from clockwise to anticlockwise and back again. The sugar gradually dissolved in the heat and John kept his freezing palms clamped down to either side of the mug, allowing the warmth to move to his core.

He sighed in relief. He was home.

"Sherlock?" he cried out, unsurprised to find his voice a little hoarse. "Are you in?"

There was no answer. He'd probably gone off on some case. John frowned slightly and took his phone out of his pocket.

_Back now. Interesting case?_

_JW_

Almost immediately afterwards, he felt the phone buzz with a reply.

_Very, very interesting. __I need you in my bedroom, now._

_SH_

John blinked, bemused.

_And they say romance is dead. At least b__uy me a drink first._

_JW_

His phone vibrated again.

_Now._

_SH_

Sighing again, John walked stiffly across the hallway and to Sherlock's door, knocking politely. "This had better be-" A pale hand gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him roughly inside the room. John tripped in the doorframe, spilling tea up his chest.

"Sherlock!" he cried, exasperated. He looked down at his shirt. "I've only just got back and you're already making a mess."

John looked up to find a certain consulting detective very near to his face, breathing heavily onto his face. "John!" He said; eyes bright. "You're back!"

Sherlock threw his arms around John's shoulders and allowed all his weight to fall on him, causing John to stagger backwards. "Jesus!"

"No, just me," came his muffled reply, Sherlock's head being buried in John's chest at the time.

John finally managed to release himself from Sherlock's embrace. "It's nice that you're glad I'm back, but there's a limit!"

Sherlock grin only widened. "John, John, Johnny John John."

"What have I said about calling me Johnny?" said John darkly. "Anyway, what's brought this on?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock said innocently, "Nothing at all!"

John tilted his head to one side, disbelieving. "Right… So, why did you need me _here_, exactly?"

Sherlock leapt onto his bed with all the grace of a cat. It struck John that he had never seen the insides of this room before now- it was cream, with a single wall of deep purple opposite the doorway. It matched the purple shirt that Sherlock often wore, such a delicious plum colour. John found himself blushing slightly.

"Because," Sherlock purred. "I need you here to explain the results of my latest experiment."

John smiled blankly, shutting his eyes and leaning against the wall. "Go ahead then, enlighten me. What was it about?"

"Jealousy."

"Jealousy?" John replied, still not opening his eyes.

"Yes." Sherlock's smooth baritone seemed to reverberate around the room. "The nature of it. I found myself jealous for the first time in many years."

"Years?" said John, bewildered. "You haven't felt jealous of anyone in years?"

"No," Sherlock admitted. "As I child, I was often envious of my brother, but I am told that is only to be expected. No. I found myself jealous of _you_, John."

John's eyes flew open, to find Sherlock standing opposite him. Very close to him, in fact. "W- Excuse me?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes. Jealous of you. I was surprised too. I mean, it was _you_."

"Thanks a lot," John grumbled. He really was very close to him, but that was just Sherlock. Boundaries didn't mean a hell of a lot to him. "But- Why?"

"An interesting question," said Sherlock, beginning to pace around the room. "I'm not too sure either. It's one I hoped that you could help me answer…"

John paused. "Er… I can't think. I'm nothing special. Maybe you're confused."

Sherlock widened his eyes. "Me? Confused? Oh no, I don't think so. Your reaction has proved most instructive. Perhaps you can deduce it for yourself?"

John thought for a moment. "Well, I- I have other friends, who I went to see. Is that it?"

"Oh no," said Sherlock again, taking a step closer. "You'll have to do better than that. I don't want _friends_, which in itself is a clue…"

John frowned. "You're jealous… of my ability to make friends with people, even people who don't want to be befriended?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes! I don't want to have friends, and yet, here you are. My only friend. The only friend of Sherlock Holmes. You should be flattered."

John rolled his eyes. "Always so modest, Sherlock."

"Always," he smiled. He stopped where he stood. "Why can't I be you, John?"

John smiled. "You don't really want to be me, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed. "But I do, John. I do." He patted him on the shoulder. "You're so…" He stopped speaking briefly. "But then that got me thinking," Sherlock took a step closer still, "And I realised. I'm not just jealous of you. I'm jealous of them. The people at the wedding. They took you away. They had you."

John stared incredulously. "You were jealous because they had me? I know you're possessive sometimes, Sherlock, but I'm not yours to be possessive of."

"And that's what's annoying me!" He exclaimed, pressing his arm against the wall that John was leaning against, trapping him where he stood. "You're not mine."

John flushed. "Sherlock, I-"

Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "Everything you do is so _irresistible_. You're too perfect for your own good, do you know that? You're intoxicating."

John tried to move away, but found himself neither able nor willing to. He was, after all, so very warm. "Sherlock, you're, ah, you're getting a little, Christ, I-"

Sherlock smiled. "Methinks he doth protest too much. You know, in my line of work, it's useful to make friends easily. I'm not good at it. You are. And at first, I thought it was just that I wanted from you, but it's not. It's all of you. Every gorgeous little bit of you."

"Sherlock!" John cried, finally attempting to extricate himself. "I'm- I'm sorry, but I-"

"Don't swing that way?" Sherlock interrupted, cocking his head. "John, it's a little too late to be denying that. That hunger you awaken in me, you feel it too, I know you do- and whether you like it or not, your body reacts to me."

Mortified, John realised his body had betrayed him, and he was more than a little (ahem) _overexcited_. He blushed, and Sherlock smirked. "Shut up," he muttered.

"I didn't say anything!" Sherlock said indignantly.

"You were going to. I'll just have to make you be quiet." He placed a hand onto Sherlock's face, and guided him into a gentle kiss. It was obvious that Sherlock was a novice when it came to this. Still. He would have time to learn.

After a while, they broke apart, Sherlock panting a little. His grin was, if possible, wider than it had been earlier. "Anything you want," he said breathily, "anything at all, you can have. Right now, I'd don't care what you want from me."

The corner of John's mouth twitched. "Anything?"

"Yes."

"There's only one thing I want right now."

Sherlock smiled. "Oh? And what's that?"

"To get out of these wet clothes."

Sherlock laughed. "You're simply elegant."

**YOU ASKED FOR FLUFF. YOU GET FLUFF. I apologise for the terrible quality, I was put off mid-writing by some serious teenage angst. ****It's over now. I am once again Zen.**


	9. Stargazer

**Track: **Stargazer

**Artist: **Paloma Faith

**Album: **Do You Want The Truth Or Something Beautiful?

**YouTube Link: **.com/watch?v=222dugVYBA0

**I KNOW I SAID I'D STOP WITH THE ANGST, I'M SORRY. But I don't control my iPod, even with its fucked up view of shuffle. I mean, I'm repeating artists this early on? Should not happen. Even so, I love Paloma Faith, and this one kind of fitted too well not to be used… **

**Warning: This is a minor character fic. **

**Stargazer**

"Just sharing."

Yes, just sharing. Dr John Watson had cocked his head to one side and simply said "Oh," leaving the matter as it was. He wasn't here to listen to her personal life, or lack of one, he had a case to be getting on with.

Julie didn't bother asking Dr Watson why _he_ of all people was the one investigating, she'd simply sighed and let him in, taking him up to Alex's old room.

"May I?" the doctor asked, pointing at the large black telescope. She blinked, snapping out of a brief trance.

"Yeah." Dr Watson pulled the sheet that covered it away and let it fall to the floor.

He muttered a brief "sorry" with an awkward smile, one which she was not in the mood to return. "Stargazer, was he?"

"God yeah," she replied softly. "Mad about it. It's all he ever did in his spare time." She heard her own voice crack as she said the final word, and she hung her head, a little embarrassed. Dr Watson seemed not to notice, taking care to check over the many possessions in the room. "He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him." She felt an all too familiar scrape at the back of her throat, threatening to send her over the edge. "He was, er, never much of a one for hoovering."

Dr Watson gave her a kind smile. "What about art? Did he know anything about that?"

Julie sighed. "It was just a job, you know."

"Hmm." He paused, then proceeded to examine the room. "Has anyone else been round asking about Alex?"

"No," she said sadly. A sudden though occurred to her. "We had a break in though."

"Hmm?" Dr Watson straightened up. "When?"

"Last night. There was nothing taken." The doctor looked puzzled by this. "Oh, there was a message left for Alex on the landline."

He walked a little closer to her. "Who was it from?"

"Well, I can play it for you, if you like. I'll get the phone."

"Please."

She walked down across the landing to the coffee table where the phone was positioned and picked it up. She played the message.

'_Oh, should I speak now? Alex, love, it's Professor Cairns. Listen- you were right, you were bloody right! Give us a call when-'_ The dial tone rang out harshly as the message cut off.

"Professor Cairns?" Dr Watson asked.

"No, no idea, sorry."

He turned to look at the telescope again. "Can I try and ring back?"

"Well, no good. I mean, I've had other calls since. Sympathy ones, you know."

He nodded wordlessly, and she went to put the phone back in its place.

The doctor had run off in a hurry soon afterwards, saying something about "suicide" and "train line". This hadn't bothered Julie much, she wanted to be alone. Slowly, she climbed the stairs to Alex's room, gently pushing open the door.

She sat on the bed, the bedsprings sagging sadly under her. It was subtle little reminders like that which made her feel particularly awful. Of course, she knew that she wasn't exactly modelling potential, but she didn't need it painfully reaffirmed to her every time she moved.

"Just sharing," she repeated, the words tearing at her mouth as she spoke them. It was the truth- they simply shared a flat in central London, thrown together through necessity. She couldn't afford the rent alone, and neither could he. Flatmates, that's what they were. Just flatmates.

Except, flatmates never _remain_ flatmates. The relationship can be taken in two ways- either the two can end up loathing each other so fully that one has to move out to stop them killing each other, or they can bond. They can progress from flatmates to just mates, becoming friends. They're the ones who know your every movement, know your funny little routines, all your intricacies and idiosyncrasies. Those little details that make up a person, those extra bits of personality.

Alex and Julie had become friends. Good friends, she liked to think, they had their own ways of working together. Alex would often teach her about the sky, and the stars.

"_You see that?" he said. "That's Orion. It's unusual that you can see it in London, usually it's too polluted."_

"_Why do you live in London if you like to look at the stars?" she asked._

"_Necessity. I can't afford to move to the countryside, that costs money which I don't have. But I've got a good job, and the pay's alright, so maybe one day I will. Who knows?"_

She didn't know what she had. What she had in Alex was a kind, sensitive man with a deep passion for the stars. Someone who had made her feel special, for the first time in her life.

She stood up, and let her hand run over the smooth black telescope. Deep bitter regret tainted her mouth, a sudden sting that burned, oh so much. Regret for not having the foresight to realise what she wanted.

Grief works in odd ways. It can clear the mind or it can distract it. But Julie knew that every morning she woke up lonely, it would be her own damn fault for not taking the chances she was given. And without Alex there, she wasn't sure she could ever feel special again.


	10. Accidentally in Love

**Hi. This chapter is really written because... I write fics about John and Sherlock, about their lives, their relationships... And they're always really exciting and filled with tension. Which isn't realistic, now I think about it. So this is about the ordinary romance that inhibits their lives. ****I hope you like it.**

_**Track: **__Accidentally in Love_

_**Artist: **__Counting Crows_

_**Album: **__Shrek 2 OST ('Cause I'm cool like that ;D)_

_**YouTube link: **__.com/watch?v=pEprz3ifXsE_

**Genres: **Romance/Humour.

**WARNINGS: **Slash, sexual references.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Accidentally in Love<strong>_

_10:00am_

Sherlock awoke to the sound of drilling. _Christ, I must have drunk too much last night, _was the first thought that entered his mind at the constant, monotonous drone. Sherlock had spent the night pretending to be a French post modernist architect, and it turned out that architects threw particularly wild parties. He'd staggered in at eight in the morning, drunker than he'd been in months, a feather boa draped elegantly around his neck and clutching a bottle of champagne. He was irritatingly tired- this party had exhausted him, and now Sherlock's bimonthly sleeping plan was being thrown out of whack. He _had _solved the case though.

However, it soon became apparent that the building work was in fact real, not just in his hung-over head. Sherlock deduced this from three things- the mirror on the wall opposite was vibrating slightly, the neighbour's cat had moved from its usual perch on the windowsill opposite the flat, and most prominently, John was sat in an armchair wearing the most ridiculous pair of fluffy pink earmuffs he had ever seen.

"John?" Sherlock spluttered. "What the _hell_ have you got on your head?"

"What?" he said loudly.

"I said, what the hell have you got on your head?"

"I can't hear you mate," he yelled. "They're drilling!"

"Do you think?" Sherlock said sarcastically, although it's hard to seem tauntingly contemptuous when you're shouting across a room.

"WHAT?"

Sherlock wrenched the earmuffs off his head. "I said, WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU GOT ON YOUR HEAD?"

John jumped, dropping the paper he was holding. "Jesus, Sherlock, you scared the hell out of me!"

Sherlock ignored this comment and simply grabbed John's jumper covered arm, dragging him down the corridor and into the bathroom. It was quieter here; in fact Sherlock could barely here the noise. It faded into an ignorable background buzz when he shut the door behind him.

"John, why the hell is there that blaring cacophony of building work outside?"

"Next door are having vital restructuring work," John said matter of fact-ly. "Can't be avoided, I'm afraid. It's only till nine tonight, then they'll be done."

"_Nine_?" Sherlock gaped. "That's _hours_ away! It's only…" Sherlock checked his watch. "_Ten_ now! That's eleven hours, John. _Eleven_."

"Yes, thank you, I can count," John said tetchily. "Well, we'll just have to stay in here. At least it's quiet, and warm."

Sherlock grumbled something incoherent and promptly clambered into the bath, scowling. "This is going to be torture. How am I supposed to work?"

John sighed. "You could do something as radical as, oh, I don't know, relaxing? You haven't got a case on anyway, what research are you planning that is so vital that it can't wait till tomorrow?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, thought, then shut it again. Eventually, he managed a sullen "Fine! _Fine_!"

John sat down, glad of the silence. First the drilling, then Sherlock's ranting… He didn't think his eardrums could take it. John shut his eyes. At last, peace.

…

…

…

"Joooooohn?"

John sagged. "What?"

"I'm bored."

John opened his eyes. "And what do you propose I do about that?"

"Entertain me."

"I'm not your performing monkey, Sherlock!"

"Pleeeeease John. It's so _dull_."

John sighed. This was going to be a long eleven hours. But he wasn't going to give in. No. Not this time.

* * *

><p><em>11:15am<em>

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"What will it take you to SHUT UP Sherlock?"

"Food. And newspapers. And cushions."

"_Fine_." John armed himself with his fluffy earmuffs and headed out into the flat.

* * *

><p><em>12:00pm<em>

John returned later with the goods he had bought. "I nearly walked into the bloody newsagents with these on," he chuckled, throwing the earmuffs to the ground.

"Those are ridiculous," Sherlock pointed out, looking eagerly for what John had brought.

"Those are _practical_," he replied. "At least I'm prepared, unlike you. Not that you need to be, oh no, you don't have to go out, you can bully your flatmate into getting it for you!"

Sherlock smiled, a little guiltily. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No," John admitted. "That's what worries me."

He pulled in a bag. "So, the things I bought from the shop- chicken and pesto sandwiches for you, BLT for me." He chucked the boxed sandwiches over to Sherlock where he sat. "Two packets of crisps- plain for you, salt and vinegar for me. Two bottles of water, two Mars bars, four newspapers- the Guardian, the Times, the Mirror and the Daily Mail so we can laugh at it. I got a few magazines too. I'm sure there was something else too… Oh yeah, I got coffee. Black, two sugars."

John passed all the products to Sherlock, who looked shocked. "How did you know what I wanted?"

"A year and a half of acting like your servant," John replied, but he smiled, opening the door and taking something stacked outside. "I also got two sleeping bags out of the airing cupboard, just for comfort, and a couple of pillows too. Just a small point to bring up, though- why is there a decaying hand in there?"

Sherlock looked around guiltily. "It's an experiment."

"Of course it is."

* * *

><p><em>12:30pm<em>

Sherlock had eaten his food quickly, clearly using the food as something to occupy his mind, if only briefly. He had read, reread and mocked the newspapers- particularly the Daily Mail- before moving onto reading the magazines.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"There was a ghost in this woman's womb."

John looked up from the copy of _Empire_. Sherlock had his head buried in _Chat_ magazine. "Sherlock, no she didn't."

"I know that. But why does it say she does?"

John shrugged. "To get cash for the photo, I assume."

Sherlock looked at the story. "It _does_ look like a face."

* * *

><p><em>2:00pm<em>

"It says here that her dog has psychic healing powers."

"No it doesn't Sherlock."

"Remember the Baskerville case, John? Not all things are as they seem."

"Sherlock, that woman does not have a psychic dog."

"How do you know?"

"I am a _doctor_, Sherlock."

"Exactly. It might be useful to you, is all. I'm only thinking of you."

* * *

><p><em>3:30pm<em>

"Joooooohn?"

John looked up to see Sherlock facing the wrong way in the bath, his sleeping bag covered legs held in the air.

"Yes Sherlock?"

"What's your star sign?"

"Cancer. Why?"

"'_With passion planet Mars in your sign and Venus close by it is possible to meet someone special now. A sudden change at work can work in your favor, keep an open mind. Money matters are under the microscope, you can be the benefactor of extra cash_.'"

John sighed. "Sherlock, you don't believe in astrology."

"Not the point. Just trying to pass the time."

John laughed. "Am I not riveting company for you Sherlock?"

"We've been in here for five and a half hours. That's nearly a school day. I feel like I'm at school."

"Well, is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, I suppose. Explain this to me."

John glanced at the article. "What about it?"

"Well, why is she in there? What's her purpose?"

John thought for a while. It was hard. He had no idea. It would be hard, teaching Sherlock about the Kardashians.

* * *

><p><em>4:30pm<em>

"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with… R."

"Razor?"

"How did you know?"

"Oh, please," Sherlock said with a purr. "I spy with my little eye, something beginning with… T."

"Toilet?"

"No."

"Toothpaste?"

"No."

"Toothbrush?"

"No."

"… Toilet seat cover?"

"No."

"Toilet paper?"

"Keep away from the toilet area."

"… Towels?"

"Closer."

"Towel rack?"

"Yes!"

* * *

><p><em>5:15pm<em>

John was getting tired of waving his hands like a maniac. Surely Sherlock would get it soon?

"Bird."

"No."

"Plane."

"No."

"Bird plane!"

John sighed. Charades was not Sherlock's strong point. "Batman!" he said exasperatedly.

Sherlock looked blankly back at him. "John, you can't just make films up. That's ridiculous."

John spluttered but said nothing. It had been a mistake to try and engage Sherlock with popular culture.

"John?" said Sherlock sleepily. "I'm tired. Do you mind if I sleep?"

"No, no," said John, exhausted himself. Sherlock needed constant distractions, and providing them was very tiring. "Go ahead."

Sherlock nestled his head into the pillow propped up against the edge of the bath, drifting off almost instantly.

* * *

><p><em>7<em>_:00pm_

Sherlock was hungry. He knew this now- he was absolutely starving, and he'd wasted the better part of two hours sleeping. Blearily, he opened his eyes, to spot John gently shaking him awake.

"Hi. Sorry to wake you, but I just wanted to know if you wanted some food?"

"Yes, definitely." Sherlock sat upright, stretching his arms. "What have we got?"

John looked into the bag. "The 6, the 10 and the 18." He passed the boxes of food to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at the boxes, confused. "How did you know what I'd want to order?"

John shrugged. "You always order the same thing… I just remembered." He sat down on the cold, hard floor.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Am I always so demanding?"

John looked up at him, a piece of Kung Pao chicken halfway to his mouth. "What?"

Sherlock looked guiltily down at his food. "Do I always make you go out and get the Chinese, and the shopping, and distract me from my boredom?"

John, puzzled, laughed. "Sherlock, you don't _make_ me do any of these things. I choose to do them."

Sherlock gaped. "But _why_? What do you possibly get out of this arrangement?"

John said nothing, but pulled something else out of the bag. "I got us desert too. Ice cream."

Sherlock looked at the tub. "John, I can't eat ice cream, I'm-"

"Lactose intolerant, yes, I know- this is special stuff you can eat. They sell it on Browning Street."

Sherlock frowned. "That's a good half an hour away, it would have taken you a while to get it."

"Well, you know, I didn't want you to go hungry."

And… there it was. Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. Blank, barren shock washed over him in a wave, making his muscles tense where he sat, his mouth going dry.

He found himself suddenly, inexplicably, accidentally in love.

With his flatmate, no less, an idea so clichéd that if it were happening to someone else, perhaps Mycroft or Lestrade, he would have mocked them. How very ironic- the larger than life consulting detective falling for someone so… normal. Too normal, it would seem at first glance, for Sherlock to tolerate. But yet, Sherlock found himself more than tolerating John. He physically needed him.

It seemed fitting in Sherlock's still dazed mind that he would realise his adoration in such an ordinary fashion, in such an ordinary situation. John, the saint that he was, remembering to buy ice cream for the lactose intolerant. It certainly wasn't going to be made into an award winning film. It was so banal, so abhorrently pedestrian that Sherlock was caught between laughing and throwing up.

Sherlock had never intended this. God knows, the notion had never occurred to him before. Of course, he had noticed how people had assumed that he and John were a couple, but he was usually in the midst of deducing. It was unimportant at the time. Perhaps that was he needed, to be separated from his work through the medium of a hangover and a pneumatic drill, to fully come to realise what he felt for the doctor. And now he knew, he couldn't possibly ignore it, bury it in his head and suppress what he felt. What people often noted about Sherlock Holmes was that he was an all or nothing kind of guy. He told it how he saw it- honesty was his policy, except for when it wasn't.

This thought process lasted for around five seconds, before the sound of John's voice saying "Sherlock?" snapped him out of the brief stupor he had been in. Sherlock looked up at the man, holding out the pot of strawberry ice cream and a spoon.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John's concern was almost heavenly to him.

"Never better," he said weakly, taking the tub and the spoon from him.

John sat back down, peeling open the lid of the pot. "Mmm, mint chocolate chip. Delicious."

"John?"

"Yes?" he replied, digging his spoon into the soft substance.

"I think I love you."

John froze for the tiniest of moments, and then relaxed. He brought the spoon up to his mouth. "What, just for some ice cream? I have to make a mental note of that, maybe then you'll do the dishes."

"I'm serious, John."

John stopped, the spoon hovering half way to his lips. There was an awkward moment of silence that felt like an age, before John dropped the spoon. The clatter of the metal hitting the floor felt deafening.

"W-What?"

"John, I-" Sherlock cleared his throat, searching for the words. "I love you. At least, I think I do. How are you supposed to know? How are you supposed to know how it feels?"

John said nothing, but stared anxiously back at Sherlock.

"It- It feels like I'm swelling on the inside. In a good way. Like the feeling I get once I've finished a case, but only a hundred thousand times better." Sherlock blushed at how inarticulate he was being. "It's like sunlight, all warm, but on the inside. Is that how it's supposed to feel?"

John nodded, a quick shocked nod that Sherlock couldn't interpret.

"Is that OK with you?" Sherlock said nervously.

John paused, and then laughed. "Jesus, Sherlock, it's more than OK."

Each would swear the other moved first if made to recollect the precise moment when they became a couple, but in reality, it was simultaneous. Sherlock enveloped John in his arms, crushing him to his chest so tightly it nearly cut off John's airway. John craned his neck upwards whilst Sherlock captured his lips with his own.

"Your lips taste of Chinese food," Sherlock said softly, panting for breath as they finally broke apart.

"What a brilliant deduction," John laughed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock.

Sherlock stroked John's hair. "So this is fine?"

"It's definitely fine. Sherlock, I- I didn't dare hope that you could ever- Not _me_. I mean- oh, I'm explaining this horribly." John pulled away. "I didn't think that you would ever be interested in someone like me?"

Sherlock had to laugh at this. "Someone like you? You mean, someone kind, intelligent, generous and the only person who I have ever, _ever_ trusted? It's me who should be surprised. How could you possibly like someone so insufferable?"

"You're not insufferable, Sherlock," said John quietly. "I like you just as you are."

Sherlock was taken aback at this. "Even when I make you walk miles around London to get me newspapers? Even when I make you camp out in the rain? Even when I almost get you killed?"

John looked up at Sherlock, took one of his hands in his own, and kissed it. "Sherlock, you have to understand. I'd do it all a thousand times without thinking twice."

* * *

><p>If Mrs Hudson thought she heard loud banging noises whilst watching the television that night, she told herself that it was simply the builders packing away their equipment. Yes, that was absolutely it. Those noises were perfectly ordinary, nothing special at all. And she had most certainly imagined the odd moaning noises, or perhaps it was a pipe. And the loud cry of "Sherlock!" was, after all, not unusual. Sherlock was always doing something to irritate John. Often repeatedly in succession.<p>

Inwardly, however, she smiled. _I bloody knew it._


End file.
